Ardency
by roughandraw
Summary: He finally understood that it was time.


Stiles stopped talking.

It wasn't gradual. His words didn't one day come and then slowly taper off as time went by.

No.

One day he just stopped.

And that was it.

Nobody noticed right away. They wrote it off that Stiles was just having an off day. And sure, maybe he was having an off day. Then maybe that off day turned into an off week, which then led to him have an off month. That month led to two and then that month led to three.

And that's where Stiles is now.

Three months and he hasn't said a word.

The people around him don't know how to handle it. Don't know how they're going to _survive_ without his words.

He thinks they're selfish; wasting their words by saying things that are meaningless and vain.

He wishes that he could let his words waste away.

Because he has so many things that he doesn't just want to say, but thing inside of him that need to be said.

Aloud.

They need to be heard.

He needs to be heard.

He needs to tell someone that his chest is always on fire. That it feels like someone had taken their fist and plowed a hole right through it.

He tried to tell himself that it was all in his mind.

But he felt _everything._

He could feel the way the hand twisted and turned inside him, slowly curling their fingers around his rapidly beating heart, which at the contact had managed to slow into a steady,

_thump, _

_thump, _

_thump._

He felt the way that their fingers had begun to elongate; sprouting roots that would grow and flourish until one day his organs were tied and connected to each other passing energy from one to another selflessly.

Stiles felt _everything._

But Stiles didn't want to feel.

Stiles wanted to talk.

He would sit alone at night clutching his aching chest as he tried to force the words to come out.

They never did.

Sometimes he would cry, mentally pleading to be set from this insanity.

There wasn't anything on this earth he desired more.

His friends always asked him why he would not talk. He would look at them blankly trying to project the things that lived inside of him so they understood.

They never did.

At first they would ask him everyday. But after receiving no answer somewhere along the line they had quit asking.

Except for Derek, who seemed to be the most persistent.

Sometimes at night Derek would crawl into his window and he would sit with Stiles.

Sometimes he would ask him questions that he could not answer, and sometimes he didn't say anything at all.

On the last night is when everything changed.

Derek came into his room and sat with him just like every other time, though whilst he moved closer his hand has reached out to Stiles, wrapping around it like a vice.

Something inside of Stiles jolted from the familiarity.

There was something in the way that the feeling of Derek's hand wrapped around his hand echoed the one that had had seemed to be pulsating inside of him.

He finally understood.

He realized that his chest wasn't really hurting all along.

The seedling that had rested in the back of his throat sprouted and grew inside of his mouth. Slithering up and out of his body like an infant snake coming up from an underground shelter to take its first breath of morning air.

With a steady hand he reached inside himself and pulled the growth out of his body completely, grasping it in his hand.

Derek hadn't acknowledged anything that had happened and instead he kept looking straight forward.

Stiles looked to the flower once more though this time it fell limp in his hand.

He set it next to him on the bed. It smiled at him before lulling off to sleep.

Derek's head turned to Stiles and captured his attention.

His eyes were pleading with him. "Why can't you talk?"

Stiles thought he could see the desperate tone behind Derek's words ghosting off his lips in tiny wisps that faded and floated up into the ceiling.

He frowned and looked at the flower sitting next to him on the bed, and suddenly the leaves curled in upon themselves and the pedals dissolved to a fine dust that pooled next to him before a gust of his breath sent them wildly spiraling to his floor.

They spun and danced around each other before settling at his feet.

It was time.

"_Because I'm in love."_ He whispered.

And then for the first time in months he didn't feel the need to talk.

Because Derek's hand wrapped itself tighter around his and that's when Stiles knew.

He _knew.._

Derek had understood exactly what he meant.


End file.
